A Completely Normal Kind of Emptiness
by Tiruneko
Summary: She did not wish for him. She did not wish for the death he brought. He did not wish for her. No, but she thinks he might have prayed. Part of him, the part that might still retain some humanity, prayed for anyone. Prayed for a savior. He spared her, but, well, she saved him. Whether he wanted her to or not, that's a different question entirely.


One

He Is The Gun

He cannot stop running. He cannot stop running. He just has to run because if he doesn't, well, he'll be toast. He'll be done, kablamo, blown to bits by the bullets from the guns of angry men. He doesn't want that.

Down the hallway, over the toppled china rack, past the room where sounds of screams are echoing, around the corner, _hide. _Wait. Emerge. Kill. Kill. Kill. The thought floods him like tsunami, the blinding rage that can only be fixed with a swift bang-bang and a thud of a body. Another guard gone.

Rich people, they always have the most guards. Honestly, it's infuriating. Why would you need this many guards, incompetent ones at that. If you're so rich, honestly, pay someone to teach you how to protect yourself. Or does laziness come with money? Or helplessness, does that come with it too? Whatever. It makes his job so much easier. Speaking of his job…

The boy darts out from behind the stairwell, guns blazing, the heavy feeling of the silver guns in his strong and gloved hands, the comfort of the loud pops of the bullets. It's the only time he feels alive. The only time he feels human—when the adrenaline coursing through his body creates that delightful vibration of energy in his teeth and god the feeling of running, knowing that he's not only enjoying himself, but getting something out of it too. God it feels alive. Truly, truly alive.

The mansion's walls are splattered with red, the red of those hired to protect it. They're doing a terrible job. Dell Yowane is a rich man. A very, very rich man. Rich enough to have the money to buy himself twenty four guards and rich enough to have the amount of enemies where he'd need to hire twenty four guards. You'd at least think he'd hire good ones. The running, shooting boy counts the doors.

_Kill the man himself, all of the security, and the daughters. All of his daughters. _Why? Why kill the girls? The boy didn't ask. It's not necessary. He just waits to be pointed and then he'll shoot. He is the gun. He is the gun. He is the gun.

The boy stops. This door is closed. The heavy oak door on his right is _closed. _He slows, backs up, presses his ear to it, and listens. Whimpering, shuffling, voices. He could hear you _breathing _from ten feet away if he tried hard enough. No use to keep quiet, might as well make a lot of noise. Keeping silent will only delay the inevitable. He finds you, he shoots you, and, subsequently, you die.

The boy backs up and runs into the door, bouncing off. As a result it creates a loud bang, alerts the remaining guards of his location, and ushers a loud yelp of terror from the other side. Just fine, all just fine, though. The boy can get it down.

He moves back over to the door and calls through it, "Move away from the door. I am going to shoot it down. If you don't want to be shot, I suggest taking cover." He likes to see their faces when they die. That's the only way he feels alive. The primal urge to kill and watch life fade commands him. Survival of the fittest. He is the fittest. He places the barrel of the gun against the door handle and fires four times. It doesn't matter how many bullets he wastes, he's got plenty.

The door gives this time with little resistance.

The room is grand, just as he expected from a second story grand room. Inside are multiple sleek and modern grey couches adorned with plush throw pillows and fur blankets. A white tiger animal skin rug is in the center of the room and a giant painting canvas on an easel is under the main window. The shudders are drawn making the whole bright feel to the place seem shadowy and empty. A set of sleek grey but not exactly black bookcases line an entire wall—on second glance, they _are _the wall. And underneath it are four cowering girls.

The tallest is the most frantic. She has large, poufy tendrils of cream colored hair and is adorned in almost entirely orange. What a distasteful color. She scrambles madly away, abandoning the other three, but falls flat on her back, squirming like she's already been shot. She hasn't. She will be. "P-please!" her voice is teary, garbled, frantic, and desperate. "P-please don't kill me! I-I don't- we can give you money! All the money in the world! P-ple-", he cuts her off with a swift bang.

The body falls limp on the wood. The other three yelp and one lets out a brutal sob. The next is a girl with bright, bright red cherry hair, clearly artificial. With a "tsk" of distaste, the boy grabs her roughly by the hair and tugs her into his reach. She screams so loud he shoots her without moment's hesitation. There are two left.

One is the same as the first. She's dressed in very Victorian looking clothing with lots of ruffles and frills and a pointless hairpiece that just looks plain ridiculous. She cowers and chokes on her tears. She doesn't have any left. The girl crawls forward towards the boy. She saw his face. She knows she is next. "P-please… _please, _God, don't kill me."

She falls to the ground with a resonating thud.

There is one left.

This one is different. She _stands. _Her face is marred with the evidence of dried tears and her eyes bubble with them, though they do not fall. She is dressed simply, a black cocktail dress, but the amount of makeup is monstrous. Her hair is the lightest out of all the girl's, a creamy white, a pearl. Her eyes are a cold and clear blue. The only visible portion of sky through the clouds on a sunny day.

"Aren't you going to beg?" The boy asks, because really, this is strange. This has never happened before and it's interesting.

The girl shakes her head and raises a hand to rub at the dried tears on her cheek. "Would it really make a difference?" Her voice is strong and clear. She doesn't say any more.

Footsteps pound frantically on the floor down the hall. The other guards. Their cries and screams must have alerted them. They're coming. He has a minute. More than enough time to shoot the girl and go. He doesn't. He wants to know.

"Would you beg, if it made a difference?" He raises his right hand.

The girl _smiles. _She has the audacity to _freaking smile. _"We both know it won't," she says. His hand whitens around the gun.

"_Name,_" he demands harshly, voice unsteady as the footsteps grow closer. Before the girl can give a meaningless _what? _and waist her last few moments, he clarifies. "Give me your _name." _It's a gift. He's giving her a gift.

She smiles wider, white teeth showing. Her mouth opens. Just as the words are on the tip of her tongue, there's a gunshot. A blinding pain rips through the boy's shoulder. A bullet. His vision blurs. His hearing goes. Her mouth keeps moving.

"_NO," _he screams, _"NAME!" _he screams. But his head hits the crimson floor and blackness takes his vision. The blackness of her dress. Her.

There is hardly any light. He has no concept of time here. It disappeared within the first few days of torture. If you kill most the daughters and half of the guards and business friends of the richest man in the world and get caught before you can finish, the torture is anything but merciful. He lost concept of time a while ago. Things blend together until it's just Her and a longing for his blade. They took that her too.

He can break his time in captivity into three chunks. One; the time when they wanted things. They wanted information that they wished to extract through blood. Two; the time when they wanted screams. It devolved into a bloody and brutal game of endurance. The torturers no longer wanted information—they weren't getting anywhere with that—they wanted just to hear him scream because they couldn't even get whimpers out of him. Three; the time when they got barbaric. Image the most brutal, bloody form of torture and inflict it tenfold. He screamed then. Then they left him for the rats.

"_They'll come back," _he can't stop thinking. _"They're not done yet." _Time passes with schemes and delusions where he'll overpower them, break free, go home to his warm bed and his precious blade and maybe he'll step out of the world of crime for a while. _Yeah right. _Maybe he'll retire all together. _That's rich. _Maybe he'll take up crochet or cards. He'd always wanted to try sewing.

Then he started to think of ways to kill himself or maybe just to let them kill him so he could sleep, so it'd be over. But then the door opened.

"No, I'm okay. I want to go in alone," the voice was steady, yet gentle. _HER! _

He lifts his head slowly. She looks different now. The girl is in an oversized plain white hoodie that swallows her and makes her look frail. Her hair is still the same, still the moonlight shade that's been haunting him, but her eyes are darker somehow. The makeup is gone. He can't help but think it looks better that way.

She sits down on the other side of the table and the door closes. Her hands are in her lap. He wants to see them and he doesn't know why. Maybe the delirium. Probably the delirium.

"Hello," she says softly. Her voice is sweet.

"Hello," his is gravely, worn, dead.

She surveys him silently for a minute and he lets her. "You've taken quite the beating I see," she states.

"Yes, that I have," the boy replies. A strand of blood stained- light pink hair falls in his eyes. His hands are bound and he can't move it away. "Why are you here?" he can't help but ask.

"Personal interest," the girl says plainly. "Besides, I'm 'in shock'. My therapist said it'd be good for me to confront my personal demons to move past the death of my sisters. You see, I looked, but I don't have any demons in here," she presses a hand to her chest. With the same hand she points to him, "but here."

The boy chuckles. It's funny. "You're funny. Good thing you didn't beg."

"Yes," the girl says quietly, contemplative, as if she doubts her own words. "Good thing."

After a long moment of silence, the boy speaks. "Will you answer my question?"

The girl sighs. "Only if you do something for me first."

"Oh? Propositioning a trapped and aggravated bear? Audacious," he jokes. He's practically _dying _for a cigarette. And some water that isn't dripping down from a crack in the ceiling.

"How badly do you want out of here?" The girl asks.

"Very," he growls lowly in his throat.

"What did you come here for?"

"To kill Dell Yowane and his daughters, which—as we can see here, I failed at doing."

The girl nods slowly. She reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out a silver key. _The key. _It's the key to the handcuffs and the door. Her eyes are ferocious, their dark depths on fire. "I'll free you, on two conditions."

"You'll free _me? _I'm too weak to fight," he gestures to himself with his eyes, "and you're not exactly a warrior type. Besides, for what sane reason would you help me?"

She reaches into her pocket again and slaps down a massive silver pistol on the table top. His pistol. His baby. A box of ammo follows. "Who ever said my reasoning was sane?" she challenges.

"What are the conditions?" The boy asks warily.

The girl holds up one finger. "One; you kill my father on your way out."

The boy pauses for a moment. "Gladly." He doesn't bother trying to question the girl. Her motives are none of his concern. They point, he shoots. He is the gun.

"Two; you take me with you."

Silence.

He is the gun.

"Name?" He replies.

The girl stands. "Ia."

* * *

><p><strong>New story! A little dark, but, eventual romance~ =u= <strong>

**You'll thank me later~ heheh**

**~_Tiruneko ;3_**


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